listen
by Gray lines
Summary: she needs to get over herself. she's projecting her own insecurities onto him and frankly its not health. it's time to say enough is enough


Maka is above all logical.

she sees the world in the black and white of ink on paper. she believes in what she can see, hear, and experience first hand.

she understands the things she can measure or lay out on a plot line. her world is essentially boxed in by reality.

she understands poetry if only to an extent because it is the theory of human emotion and diction and rhyme have always held her favor. but when it comes to actually feeling things she's not sure she can believe it.

Emotions are not rational. she can be angry about a comment from one person but feel saddened by it coming from another. why does it matter who says it? regardless of which person speaks the insult it is still an observation of her flaws.

everyone is self conscious. no one is perfect. she knows this, and yet she finds her self staring unhappily into the mirror. fingers pressed to her cheeks trying to push the plump baby fat back to somehow reveal new, older, sexy maka.

you don't have to be attractive to fight kishins. you don't really have to be much of anything except alive and willing. so why should silly things like her reflection bother her so much.

she takes her hair down and shakes it out, attempting to add some volume. hoping that it will frame her face just so, to add that little bit of grace her books always go on about.

she frowns reaching for her pushup bra. maybe some cleavage would make her more interesting. really maka? resorting to cheap tricks like some tramp her father would pick up. pathetic.

she thinks this even as she snaps the hooks into place trying to position the padding to get the desired look.

it doesn't work.

baby face and freckles stare questioningly at her from the glass. does this make us attractive?

the muscles in her arms are taught with tension. just another undesirable aspect.

who wants a girl who could probably bench press them? who wants a girl who's palms have turned to sandpaper after years of scars and calluses?

who wants a girl who simultaneously looks like a body builder and a five year old? who wants a girl with a short temper? who wants a girl that rather read all day than hold a coherent conversation? who wants a girl like her? who wants her?

she should quit pitying herself. who cares if no one finds her sexy? she wasn't exactly looking for any kind of relationship anyways.

so she doesn't have boobs, all the better to not hinder her fighting.

so she don't have a boyfriend, one less stressful interaction she could have read through.

is there really anything going wrong in her life? soul is a death scythe. she's doing better than ever. she's top of your class with a great partner, wonderful friends and a degree pending from online classes in ELA.

she should be happy. she should not be standing in the mirror in the closest thing to lingerie she owns poking unhappily at her breasts. Or her thighs, or her abs, or her annoying little baby face.

she should be training or cooking or doing anything more productive than glaring holes through an innocent mirror.

she should get dressed. soul will be home soon and she can't exactly walk around in lace trimmed undies when he's here.

she's sighs frustrated and pushes away from the sink. she'll feel much better once she's back in her tee-shirt anyways.

she curls up on the couch with some tea. she's wants to read but doesn't want to color the characters with her own sour mood. the apartment is unusually quiet. no noisy neighbors or roommates to fill the silence.

it should be nice. it was at first. when soul started dating. she liked the alone time. sure she was nervous at first, worried that he'd start bringing girls home and basically just being a slut.

but this I soul, of course he's not. he may be a little too gentlemanly actually. he pays for dates and and walks them home. never brings them back here and never fails to come home before morning

he won't even go on dates with more than one girl at a time, even when they are certainly not exclusive and no where near serious. he's just a good guy.

she feels kinda shity for doubting him.

but mostly she just feels lonely. she goes through books at nearly the rate of the high point of her parents divorce. when she used them to drown out the yelling.

but now its the quiet she wishes would stop ringing in her ears.

she shifts in her chair laying her legs across the table and slowly tracing across a scar on her knee.

the world is so much more silent than anyone realizes until we sit and wait for a certain sound. a sound like keys rattling in the door knob or a voice announcing its presence.

he doesn't ask why she waits up for him. she tries not to think about it. shes just making sure he comes home. sitting up like her mother used to. watching the door, waiting.

she should stop. she should put the caffeine down and go to bed. she's putting to much pressure on him. if he wants to stay over at a girls house and have sex, who the hell is she to stop him? why should it make her uncomfortable?

he's a grown man who does not have an obligation to come back for her. if the man wants to get laid, by God let him.

but she sits in her chair turns on his music and waits. one of these days she's going wait all night and he's not going to come home.

she's going to have to get used to the idea. as much as her insecurities affect her life, she needs to keep them from effecting his. he doesn't need to carry her stress.

to worry about what she will think if he stays.

he needs to be his own person outside of _soul and maka, partners._

he has his own life that she isn't the center of. she needs to get over herself.

she looks at the clock. its one am. he's late. she feels tears welling in her eyes.

her brain flashes back to all the mornings she would wake up to her mom still passed out in the rocking chair.

To all the weeks her Dad wouldn't come home, because the club was better than the yelling.

To her mother walking out the door suitcase in hand. all the times it felt like he wouldn't come back.

To sitting at home through his one serious death scythe mission without her.

To that stupid night when he'd fake chosen Blair over her, when for a moment she saw him walking away without her.

That's It

she stands up throwing her blanket to the side and setting her cup down. she shuts the music off and turns the lights out.

she's tired of this. she's tired of feeling like shit every time she looks in the mirror. she's tired of sitting here scared every night that soul won't come home. she doesn't get to rule his life just because of some stupid "abandonment issues". she does however, need to get a grip on her own.

she wipes her face rubbing her tears away and marches to her room, throws the covers back and shoves herself into them. she's going to bed. its time to say enough is enough.

he finds her thirty minutes later curled in a ball but in bed. she doesn't look at him pretending to be asleep even though she knows he won't buy it. He kicks his shoes off and crawls in next to her.

she doesn't move but her soul shudders against his. trying to comfort its self. he pulls her to his chest even though she stays stiff in her fetal position.

"Its ok to be scared. but I'm always going to come back."


End file.
